Chapter Text
You are maybe twelve years of age, huddled beneath the staircase, fingers weaved between your braids.
There is a deafening scream from outside the door. Your eyes are screwed shut, and all you can hear is the incessant pounding, clicks of the lock, creaks of the handle rapidly going down and back, down and back. Tears had long since begun to stream down your cheeks without your notice.
Fear constricts your throat. You can’t breathe. You can’t see.
You can only listen to nails scratching down wood, hysterical sobs, blabbered threats in a thin, high, shrieking voice.
“I’m sorry,” you want to whisper, “I am so sorry.”
Nothing makes it out.
You are maybe there for an hour before there is instead a deafening silence engulfing you. You open your eyes.
Smeared all around you is scarlet blood. It no longer drips from the chair – it is pooled beneath its four legs, soaking into the splintered edges. The man on the chair has bled dry.
Through the blurriness of your vision, you see the key glimmering on the ground, fallen directly beneath where his arm hangs limp. Except, you can’t move towards it, the scent of metal and burnt skin makes you gag into your hands. There’s nothing to vomit, or you would have, again and again.
You are maybe trapped there for a day or two, or more, before the door is broken in and you are carried out. You don’t remember much, being half unconscious by now. The questions fall past your ears, not leaving even an echo as residue. You are completely unreachable.
Your hands half clutch your nearly undone braids, clinging to the memory of the hands that tied those final ribbons.
You are accepted for work as a maid in a big gloomy mansion in the far ends of Mondstadt.
You are quiet enough, obedient enough, and more than abnormal enough. Girls of any respectable standing have quit year after year until none applied any longer in the wake of rumours. Rumours of screams from the basement, old, close-mouthed maids with blood-stained aprons, of a handsome master that is only seen in shadow.
In truth, it wasn’t your desire to apply. You had spent the last year swallowing your misery as a cleaner for a big family in the city. You didn’t loath it, but it was difficult work with very little pay; your hands will never feel the same again. You did your best to impress your employers to very little success.
The mistress was dismissive and her husband doubtful, and all it took was a whisper of your past amongst her circle for you to be sent packing.
It was a shame. You had even grown fond of the children in that short year, and out of every other job you had hopped between in the last several years, it was growing to be your favourite. Their non-judgemental presence was working to heal some part of you.
You place your bags on the ground, lifting your hand to knock on the front door. It is beyond magnificent, a deep, dark colour, with intricate designs carved into the ridges. Gold and metal glimmer at the edges.
You hold your breath before you can touch it. Three knocks, you had been told, and no more than that no matter how long they take to open.
Once, twice, thrice.
And you wait.
Night has fallen.
The small suitcase you brought acts as a backrest, despite collapsing backwards every time you lean too much. It is half empty – a life like yours has left you with very few possessions. You contemplate knocking again, but the stern look of the maid who had visited your old household to announce your acceptance glued your arm to your side. The wait was deluding you, so much so that you consider leaving. Maybe they really hadn’t heard you. Maybe they didn’t want you. Maybe you could go, find somewhere that looks less like a nightmare manor, make some-
A click from behind you snaps you to your feet.
Two eyes peer through the door. It isn’t the maid that you met before.
“Good evening, uh,” You start. Not a good start, but her eyes are certainly just as sharp as the rumours imply about the household workers. Your hands are sweaty, and you wipe them on your skirt. “I’m, I’m here for the position – I was accepted…”
The maid pushes open the door with some effort. Her voice is poised and calm when she speaks.
“Yes, you were. No need for introductions, we have been told about you,” She ushers you in with her free hand, the other one keeping the door still. “Come on in.”
The urge to breathe out in relief is only barely resisted. As you enter, and the door seals shut behind you, you begin to question that relief, slipping through your fingers.
It is much cooler than outside in the entrance hallway, dimly lit with the candle in the maid’s hands. The light flickers and wanes with every movement, casting long, quivering shadows on the walls. Besides the oil lamps studded along the walls, they are bare. You can just barely make out wisps of smoke still trailing from the candle wicks as if freshly extinguished. Maybe you were seeing things.
It’s hard to picture people living here. Being alive here. Your footsteps combine to make the only noise in what seems to be the entire mansion. It’s with a cold anxiety in your stomach that it dawns on you, that whether or not the rumours were true, this will be your final job for life. You’re sure your old employers will not be so kind as to keep it private. No one else will want to take you. You have nowhere else to go to.
The maid turns a corner, and into view comes a big, open hall. It’s better lit, and a little warmer, which is perhaps an illusion of the lighting, for you have not stopped trembling.
On the deep brown wood, a red carpet leads your sight to a regal mahogany table in the centre of the space, with six unoccupied seats around it. Some part of you registers the glamourous chandeliers, the gold-gilded paintings, the ornaments and the scent of incense, but your focus has been drawn to a point.
Your stomach knots.
At the head of the table sits a man. You don’t need to be told who he is. Talk of fiery crimson hair, the colour of fresh blood, cascading down his back, brings itself back into your memory.
“Master Diluc,” The maid speaks, not bowing as you expected, and only tilting her head. “This is the newest employee. She arrived today.”
He turns his head to you, resting his head on his palm. The rumours did not lie to you about his beauty, but you can only deliberate it for a second. His eyes are a little frightening, as red as his hair, looking at best bored with you already. Your gaze snaps downwards immediately.
He was clearly not putting on any airs to seem friendlier than he was, as your previous employer had at the beginning before it became too laborious. Maybe you could appreciate that, eventually. You’ll have to.
You’re unsure of what to say, and if you are even expected to speak at all.
There is a slight pause, and before you overthink it you set your resolve and settle on, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
You attempt to sound collected, desperate to give a good impression this time. Maybe you can make such a good impression that all of the rest of it goes well, and you get along with someone here, anyone. You’re nervous, so nervous.
“Likewise.”
His voice cuts through your thoughts. It is deep and low-toned, commands the room. Maybe he is older than you expected.
“Well, then, I’ll get her started.” The maid says. Your attention just barely shifts to her, and you recognise that she never gave her name and that you ever gave your own. Her arm holds onto your elbow and gently pulls you towards the exit. You want to glance behind you, and so you do.
He isn’t watching you go. His eyes are cast down, looking as if closed. There is nothing in front of him, and he simply seems to be thinking or waiting for somebody to arrive, though all of the doors have been locked for the night.
You turn back quickly when you feel as though you have invaded a private moment. He looks completely vacant.
You step out of the hall, and the maid shuts the door behind you.